


I Know Who I Want to Take Me Home

by emansil



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2017-12-09 06:40:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/771191
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emansil/pseuds/emansil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco knows who he wants to take him home, but constant attention by other gentlemen is not helping. Continued in Part 2 <b>"Seen It All Before</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	I Know Who I Want to Take Me Home

I Know Who I Want to Take Me Home

 

“Bugger off! Can’t you see, I’m waiting for someone? It certainly isn’t you,” Draco snarled at the ginger-haired gentleman leering at him. The man’s reflection was clear in the mirror that hung behind the bar. 

Honestly, some people. What would have even given the cretin, the Muggle cretin at that, the idea that any self-respecting person would be interested in ginger hair? It would be almost as if a Weasley had propositioned him. Draco started giggling, in a manly sort of fashion, at the ludicrousness of a Weasley and a Malfoy ever being within shouting distance of each other without, well, exactly that — shouting — taking place. There was that rumour of the brother in Romania, the one living a life of danger and excitement, however. Rumour had it that he was a different breed from the rest of them. Different in that he was supposedly hot while the rest of them were decidedly not – hot, that is. 

The end of war had changed many things, but love of the Weasleys by a Malfoy was not one of them. Draco appreciated what they had done and their sacrifices and all that, but still. One thing he did not appreciate was Ginny Weasley's reattachment of herself to Potter’s side. Attempted reattachment, he amended. While at the same time wondering why he was spending so much of this evening thinking of Weasleys. Of course, thinking of Weasley often led to thinking of Potter. A task Draco was finding he was able to do at length and in glorious technicolour detail. 

If someone — anyone — had said to Draco a year ago that in one year's time most of his days would be thinking of Potter (quite often more than just thinking, perhaps with the inclusion of physical activity engaging his right hand, or his left (he was ambidextrous after all, left was as good as the right), and his cock, whenever opportunity presented itself. Draco was surprised at how often opportunity presented itself), he would have hexed them into the middle of — forget next week, or even next month — nope, make it middle of next year, possibly even next decade. It was, however, amazing how far becoming a personal project of the saviour went towards changing one’s mind of the desirability of said saviour. 

Potter did not seem to be opposed to the attraction Draco had for him, not that he knew of the right (or left) hand activities. At least Draco didn’t think he did, but there was that invisibility cloak, and Potter had looked at him more than once with a knowing smirk on his face. 

Well, that was a humiliating and mortifying thought, Potter watching him wank. No, wait. It wasn’t mortifying, it was HOT. Draco wished just then for an invisibility cloak of his own, if only for the pleasure of watching Potter wank. Just the thought of it made his trousers — no, jeans, they’re called jeans — grow uncomfortably tight in certain areas. 

“For fuck’s sake, can’t you see I’m busy?” he snapped at the male, blond this time, standing next to him and running his fingers up and down Draco’s arm. A blond, really? That would be like taking himself home and shagging himself. Not that that was necessarily a bad thing. He was sure some of the items found in his bottom drawer could assist him with the activities. 

“Busy doing what?” the irritating man said, interrupting Draco’s thoughts on exactly what items he’d put to use and in what order. “You look like you could use some company.” 

Draco came within seconds of hexing the man, but, well, Muggle bar and all that, he couldn’t very well. “Watching my fingernails grow. Fascinating really, it will take a few hours to be able to discern any growth. I’ll be too busy to enjoy your company. So please just go about your business. Elsewhere.” He waved his hands at the man the way one would wave one of the peacocks away. 

“What?” 

What was with these dunderheads? “Oh for the love of… I’m not interested. Now bugger off on your merry way.” He waved his hands in a sweeping motion, hoping said dunderhead would get the message. He did. 

Draco tapped the side of his glass, indicating he’d like the barman to pour him another. No response. He tapped it again and then yet again. What the fuck does one have to do to get someone to pay attention in a Muggle bar — well, make that "get a Muggle barman to pay attention"? Finally, after about fifteen taps, and a few coughs and finally a “would you get the fuck over here and serve before I…” (he was forced to leave that blank, as he really wasn’t sure what he could threaten a Muggle with and not get in trouble) the proprietor poured him another. 

Draco downed it before the barman could leave. Merlin only knew when he’d be back this way. 

Draco retapped; his glass was filled again with the dark amber of Jack Daniels. 

Draco tapped again, more Jack was poured. Attempting to go for a fourth, or was it his fifth shot, Draco was surprised to find the glass falling off the edge of the bar and landing on the floor under his chair. Hmm, interesting – Muggle whisky packed a bit of a wallop, or maybe drinking three shots in about that many minutes was what packed the wallop. The barman just looked at him, shook his head and walked away, the words “you’ve had enough” ringing in Draco’s ears. 

Draco pondered whether he should reach down and pick up the wayward glass, until he almost fell on his face in the contemplation of doing such a noble yet highly ridiculous act. He thought of retrieving it magically, but really didn’t want a team of wizards descending upon him for performing magic in a Muggle area. Unless, of course, Harry Potter was with them, which Draco knew he wouldn’t be. 

Potter was off duty. Draco had heard him tell Hermione that while eating lunch this afternoon at the Leaky. Potter was supposed to be at this very club this evening. That was what Draco had heard him tell Justin this afternoon as he had stood behind them at Fortescue's. Harry had told Dean Thomas he’d probably get there around ten this evening, Draco had overheard, as he slowly sipped his tea that had grown lukewarm while he lingered overlong in the staff break room. What? It could happen that he just happened to be in the same place as Potter three times in one day; well, four, if you counted the morning stop at the coffee shop on the way in. Hey! A person needed their morning cup of caffeine, didn’t they? Draco certainly wasn’t following Potter. No one, not even Potter himself, could think that Draco was following him. It was coincidence, pure and simple. 

Of course, Draco had to admit Potter did seem to say the name of the Muggle club and its address and his scheduled time of arrival terribly loudly each time he spoke. Draco didn’t think Potter had ever spoken so clearly and distinctly in his life. He even repeated the information, just in case Justin, Dean or Hermione had trouble either hearing or understanding. But then again maybe they were a bit hard of hearing; Draco wasn’t that close to any of them. Lack of understanding, he felt he could safely rule out, at least in Hermione’s case. The witch was too bloody bright for her own good. 

A warm hand on his back startled him; he looked up and into the reflection in the mirror. A bloke with dark shaggy hair and glasses stood behind him. Draco’s heart and other unmentionable parts gave a lurch. But then the eyes lifted and Draco’s heart wilted at the dark brown eyes. Although not the other part of him that had risen for the occasion, because, well — three shots of whisky in less than five minutes and parts of anyone would have risen and stayed in position when presented with such a situation. 

The gentleman in question looked enough like Potter that if Draco squinted, he could imagine it was Potter. Draco was good at pretending; role-playing games were some of his favourites. I wonder what he’d say if I asked if I could turn his eyes green, Draco thought; hmm, probably not, unauthorised magic and all that. 

The man spoke and, even if there were parts of him still showing more interest than they had all evening, Draco still declined the man’s advances. “I’m sorry, I know who I want to take me home tonight, and it’s not you.” He smiled at the man and turned back towards the bar. He wanted another drink. 

Where the fuck was Potter? It was just like that prat to make sure Draco couldn’t help but know which club he would be visiting tonight, and then not show. Potter was just that selfish, really. So what if he’d said he wouldn’t be there until after 10.00pm and Draco had arrived at 8.30pm? One should never leave these things to chance. Potter could have decided to come early. 

“Fuck this for a boatful of badgers,” Draco said when, yet again, the male standing behind him and molesting his person, with his hands and eyes, was yet again not the person Draco wanted molesting his personhood. Potter obviously had been taking the piss, making sure Draco knew where he was going to be, and then not being there. 

Well, two can play at that game, Draco thought. He would be gone, when and if Potter ever arrived. See how Potter liked looking a fool, waiting for someone, and fighting off these Muggles. At the thought of Potter not-fighting off the Muggles, Draco started to rethink his latest idea. A trip to the loo was in order for better thought processes. 

He elegantly removed himself from his seat at the bar. It was elegant in his mind, but he suspected the reality fell short of that goal, as he landed in someone’s arms, which were the only thing that kept him from landing face first. 

“Steady on, mate,” a soft voice teased him. It was a nice voice, a very nice voice. Draco liked this voice. He wondered if the face would be as pleasant as the voice. He looked into the greenest eyes he’d seen in a long time. His heart danced an Irish jig in his chest, his brain tiptoed through the tulips, and other regions, which had slipped to half-mast after his own fall from grace, stood up and saluted the Queen. Draco’s arm came around the green-eyed man. “You came. Finally, you’re here.” He leaned in to lay a patented Malfoy wet one on the man. 

The other backed away. “Umm, do I know you? Mind, I’m not turning you down, because, well — fuck — you’re gorgeous. But you seem to have me confused with someone else.” 

Draco focused on the three Potters swaying in front of him, and realised there weren’t three Potters; there wasn’t even one Potter there. Just some stranger that had eyes the same colour as Potter’s, that was all. No dark tousled just-shagged hair, no glasses, no fading but still visible scar, no lopsided grin, no loose and baggy clothing that looked as if Potter bought his clothes off the rack. None of those things that made Harry Potter such an uncouth prat. And all of which added up to make Draco want to press him against the nearest flat surface and have his way with him for the rest of the night and on into the morning. 

He sighed, deflated. Walking away, he found, was not as easy as he might have wished. When he made another attempt at it, the nice man with the green eyes and the soft voice was there to steady him again. 

Draco was tired, pissed, and he had a hard-on that was one for the books. He placed his hands on the stranger’s chest and kissed the side of his mouth in thanks. 

The man half turned his lips towards Draco’s A gentle kiss followed, one that warmed Draco’s heart and kept the nether regions still saluting. Maybe he should rethink this whole “I know who I want to take me home” nonsense and go for what was on offer. 

“May I help you home? I don’t think driving is a good idea for you tonight.” 

Draco snorted and said. “I don’t think driving would be good for me on any night. I wouldn’t go near one of those Muggle death machines.” 

The man looked very confused. Draco realised what he’d just said. He wondered how much trouble he’d be in for speaking Wizard-speak in a Muggle area. Knowing his luck, it would be one of those dismedeanor things. He’d probably be required to do community service, helping old squibs Apparate across the city, or some such. 

Stumbling towards the door, Draco followed the stranger. Hank, the man said his name was. Hank rhymes with wank! Draco snickered at that. He did enjoy being twelve years old again on occasion. Draco’s befuddled brain was screaming at him. What are you doing? Going home with a Muggle, how are you going home with a Muggle? They could have diseases. Could he get a Muggle disease? 

Listening to his screaming brain, Draco had focused all of his attention on that, and none on his surroundings, nor where he was going. Reeling, he fell against a nice warm body and strong chest. “Umph!” 

Wanking Hank (Draco giggled at the name he’d just made up) stopped and turned back towards him, making sure he was okay. 

“Malfoy?” A voice he recognised at once, a voice that held a small note of confusion, a lot of familiarity, some humour, and massive amounts of affection all blended together to form just the loveliest sound. It was Potter’s voice and it was coming from just above the strong chest Draco had just crashed into. 

“Potter,” Draco brilliantly replied. 

Potter smiled at this and said, “Draco.” His arms wrapped around Draco, steadying him and pulling him close in the process. “You’re not leaving, are you?” 

“Harry,” Draco responded with a soft sigh. “It’s really you. You’re finally here. I’ve been waiting forever! Can we go to my place and shag now?” At the look on Harry’s face Draco rethought what he’d just said. “Or your place, we can shag at your place. I don’t mind. I’ve never seen your place. Is it nice? It’s not early Muggle décor is it? I hope not, maybe we really should go to mine. It’s very posh you know.” Both Potter and Wanking Hank were looking at him with laughter in their eyes. Draco wondered if he was talking too much; he tended to do that when he got drunk. Tipsy, slightly tipsy, not drunk, as everyone knows Malfoys do not get drunk. 

In his peripheral vision Draco realised the other man’s eyes weren’t nearly as green as Potter’s. “I’m sorry — I appreciate your fine offer,” he said to the man. Draco wrapped his arms around Potter and snogged him for all he was worth, and — as a Malfoy was worth multitudes – it was a very generous snog. “But, I know who I want to take me home and this is him.” 

“The gentleman no longer requires your assistance. I’ll make sure he gets home safe,” Potter was saying to the nice man with the green eyes and soft voice. 

An arm snaked around Draco's waist from the back, and a sultry and sexy voice whispered in his ear, “Come on birthday boy; let’s get you home.” 

“You know it’s my birthday? How?” 

“There’s all kinds of things about you I know, and even more I intend to discover before the evening is over. Happy birthday Draco! Now, about that shag you were offering? I can’t wait to see which one of those toys in your bottom drawer we’ll be using.” 

Draco grabbed Harry and dragged him out of the bar to the Apparition point, where they disappeared in front of the stunned and amazed eyes of Hank. Draco’s last thought before the familiar stomach squeezing pull was: What a mess Potter just made for the Anti-Magic in Muggle Places Enforcement Dept. It’s a good thing he’s not on duty. He’d have to arrest himself. Then where would I be? I’d have to wait even longer, forever maybe, for that shag. Wouldn’t that be just like Potter, always thinking only of himself, never even considering the suffering of others? Wait! What? What toys? What bottom drawer? What?


End file.
